


You Think I'm Strong, But I Just Pretend

by Ilovecastiel18



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, Love Confessions, Major Character Injury, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23664391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilovecastiel18/pseuds/Ilovecastiel18
Summary: Post-Apocalypse. Aziraphale gets severely injured in a fight with some rogue angels that were trying to kill him. He and Crowley are forced to come to terms with their feelings for each other as Aziraphale slowly slips away. WARNING: TEMPORARY CHARACTER DEATH. Angst, hurt/comfort, romance. One-Shot.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	You Think I'm Strong, But I Just Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> This whole “quarantine” thing has really got me spinning out, and I’ve really needed to release my pent-up emotions into something at least remotely valuable. I’m certainly not going to do my homework. But I digress. I hope you enjoy this story, please leave a review if you like it!

**Disclaimer:** Good Omens, along with its characters, locations, etc. are the property of Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. If I owned the rights to it, I wouldn’t still be desperate to meet the man that I absolutely ADORE: David Tennant.

……….

You Think I’m Strong, But I Just Pretend

……….

Today was an ordinary Tuesday, for the most part. Aziraphale found himself doing what he always does on Tuesdays: lounging around the bookshop, reading his favorite novels and waiting for two o’clock, when he could leave to meet Crowley in the park for their weekly picnic. Of course, the picnic always took place at 2:30, and it only took five minutes for Aziraphale to walk to the park, but he liked to spend a few minutes admiring the park, and the ducks, and the people milling around before his favorite grumpy demon graced him with his presence.

So, every Tuesday, like clockwork, Aziraphale would leave the bookshop a half hour early to sit on he and Crowley’s favorite bench and think.

Aziraphale didn’t plan for today to be any different, so when he his clock struck two, he bookmarked his book and quickly busied himself with putting on his shoes and coat. It was a brisk day in April and, while he was impervious to the cold, he had to keep up appearances. And he didn’t want Crowley, being cold-blooded, to feel left out in wearing outerwear.

He stepped smartly out of the bookshop at exactly 2:03pm, snapping his fingers to lock the door behind him. He took his time walking to the park, allowing the cool breeze to ruffle his hair and bring color into his cheeks. He could, of course, block the breeze from affecting him, but he rather liked the feeling. The air hitting his face made him feel _alive,_ in a way he had never truly felt before the Apocalypse.

But now, being separated from Heaven, and being able to be openly friendly and affectionate with Crowley, he felt unhindered joy and freedom stirring in his chest, which made him smile widely.

Those feelings stopped abruptly as he entered the park.

As soon as he stepped off the curb and onto the fluffy grass that signified the start of the park’s boundaries, he felt the air ripple, as if he had entered into a very dangerous situation, with forces that were not bound by mortality. He looked around and noticed the complete absence of people, despite the very nice day. There were always people in the park, even in the dead of winter… the park being empty in the early afternoon on a bright spring day was incredibly abnormal.

Aziraphale shifted uneasily, using his heightened senses to prod the area for any unusual presence. He slowly walked toward his bench, intent on still enjoying his day. He continued to probe the area for auras that did not match those of humans, and continually came up empty.

Aziraphale sat, slowly turning his head and watching the area around him. In the back of his mind, he noted that there weren’t even any ducks in the river, or any birds in the trees. It was as if he had entered another universe entirely.

That was when he felt the auras, coming at him at light speed.

Before Aziraphale even had the chance to stand and defend himself, there were three angels on top of him. He toppled from the bench and landed hard on his left shoulder. He was quickly flipped onto his back; one angel pinned his shoulders to the ground, while another tightly grasped his ankles, holding them tightly so he could not lash out. The third angel, another Principality, judging by the aura that shimmered around him, stood over Aziraphale, a tight grimace on his face.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” The angel taunted.

Aziraphale glared. “ _Former_ guardian. I have no contact with Heaven anymore.” He growled.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re aware of your _situation._ We know how you abandoned your brethren for a lowly demon and a few billion _humans._ Everybody in Heaven knows.” The angel continued. Aziraphale absently realized that the angel’s name was Barham. The other two were lower-ranking angels, and he did not know their names.

“What do you want, Barham?” Aziraphale asked wearily.

“Oh, so you remember my name? I’m surprised you care enough to think about it. Do you know what ‘Barham’ means?” he asked. Aziraphale had the distinct sense that there was danger in the answer.

Aziraphale dug around in his mind for the translation. “‘Barham’ is Persian. It means ‘smiter of resistance.’” Aziraphale answered cautiously.

“I see someone remembers their lessons. And do you know who these two are?” Barham asked.

“I know that because I read a lot, not because Heaven taught me anything even remotely useful. And no, I don’t.” Aziraphale snapped.

“Ah, well, this is Abaddon,” Barham gestured to the angel holding Aziraphale’s shoulders, “and this is Apollyon.” He gestured to the angel at Aziraphale’s feet. “Do you know what their names mean?” Barham asked, infuriatingly calm.

Aziraphale racked him brain once again for the translations. “Abaddon is Greek, though I believe it is originally derived from Hebrew. It means ‘destruction, ruination.’ Apollyon is also Greek. It means ‘destroyer.’” An intense feeling of dread flooded Aziraphale’s chest and stomach.

“Oh, very good. A+, Aziraphale. I’m sure you’ve already connected the dots as to why we are here then?” Barham asked, leaning down closer to Aziraphale’s face.

“I have a few guesses, yes.” Aziraphale forced out, refusing to show these brutes any trace of fear. “And I’m sure that you are aware that Heaven has issued a protection order on me? If you harm me, you could be in for some serious consequences. You may even Fall.” Aziraphale explained.

“Don’t pull that bullshit on us, Aziraphale. You and I both know that nobody has Fallen since the War, and nobody will ever Fall again.” Barham yelled, reaching down and slapping Aziraphale across the face, hard. Aziraphale gasped, but otherwise showed no pain as he righted his face and stared at the now upright Barham.

“Whatever you say, Barham.” Aziraphale said calmly. If only he could buy his time until Crowley got here…

Without warning, Barham conjured a bright, pulsing sword out of thin air and leveled it at Aziraphale’s throat. “I’m not here to play games, Aziraphale. I’m here to get even. I cannot believe you have the _audacity_ to thwart the Apocalypse, with a _demon,_ no less. You ruined everything that Heaven had been striving toward for _six thousand years._ And you thought you could just get away with it?” Barham snarled.

“I was never under any sort of delusion that I would get away with it forever.” Aziraphale snapped. “If you’re going to kill me, I suggest you get on with it, before I lose my patience.” If Aziraphale’s internal clock was keeping time correctly, Crowley should arrive any minute…

Aziraphale gasped and arched his back as the sword sliced through the soft flesh of his stomach. He felt the blade slip through his corporation’s spine and sink into the grass below him before Barham pulled the sword back out of his body. The blade was dripping with silver, angelic blood. Unable to scream, Aziraphale panted and gasped against the pain that was flaring through every part of his body.

“Did that hurt, little traitor?” Abaddon sneered, pushing Aziraphale’s shoulders firmly into the grass, hard enough to hurt. He heard a faint hiss come from the direction of his legs.

Aziraphale couldn’t answer; despite not needing to breathe, the angel found himself fighting to get air into his punctured lungs.

Just as Barham was about to wield the sword again, Aziraphale heard a scream off in the distance. A scream that distinctly sounded like Crowley.

_“What the fuck are you doing! Get your filthy fucking hands off him or I swear to Satan himself that I will rip you into so many pieces that not even a miracle will be able to put you back together!”_ Crowley screamed. Aziraphale turned his head and saw that Crowley had dropped all of their picnic supplies and was sprinting toward them. He didn’t have to be a Crowley-expert (which he was) to see the pure, terrifying _rage_ that was burning in Crowley’s eyes. _“What the fuck did I just say?!”_ Crowley screamed.

As he approached, Apollyon winked out of existence with a small pop, and Abaddon squealed and started running. Barham swung his sword in front of him, but even that didn’t stop Crowley. He swung a hand as barreled toward Barham, knocking the sword askew with the unadulterated power that was radiating off him. Aziraphale wanted to get up and help, but he was unable to move.

Crowley moved right past his usual tactics and landed a punch to Barham’s jaw, knocking him backyard into the grass. Crowley swung a hand over his shoulder and drew the sword to him in another wave of power, not unlike how Thor draws Mjornir to him in battle. Before Barham even landed on the grass, Crowley had the sword in his hand, and was holding the point over the angel’s throat.

“Begone, vile demon!” Barham yelled, undermining the authority in his voice by pressing himself backward in an attempt to get away from the tip of the sword.

“Fuck you.” Crowley growled. Without another thought, he plunged the blade through Barham’s throat, closing his eyes against the wave of Grace that exploded from the angel as he died. When the light dimmed and disappeared, Crowley pulled the blade from Barham’s throat and tossed it aside, flicking his hand and sending the body to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

Crowley turned abruptly, fear crossing his face as he noticed Aziraphale still lying on the grass.

“Angel?” Crowley whispered. He practically flew to Aziraphale’s side, hands fluttering as he dropped to his knees and took in the injury to the angel’s abdomen. “Aziraphale, say something.”

Aziraphale shook his head, conveying that he was unable, not unwilling, to speak.

  
Crowley grimaced, opening his hand above the wound. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand with the other. “This is gonna hurt, angel. I’m sorry.” Crowley let his power flow from his hand, grimacing when Aziraphale let out a terrible scream as the unholy power healed his wound. His backed arched off the ground. “I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

The wound stitched closed, and Aziraphale slumped back onto the grass in defeat. That’s when he noticed it. He turned his focus inward, noticing the dark edges that were encroaching on his Grace.

“Crowley, I think there is a problem.” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley was hunched back on his heels, running his hands through his messy hair.

“What is it?” Crowley asked, worry in every inch of his voice.

“I’m… I’m not exactly sure how to tell you this, dear.” Aziraphale pushed himself up from where he was lying on the grass, moving closer to his friend.

“Just tell me.” Crowley grimaced, already anticipating the blow that he was going to receive from the words.

“It seems that the sword is a holy weapon. You healed my outer wound but… I’m afraid that my Grace has been affected, and it is too far gone to heal.” Aziraphale explained.

“What does that _mean,_ Aziraphale?” Crowley pleaded.

“It means that I am going to die, Crowley. Soon.” Crowley’s face paled, and he fell backward onto his butt. Aziraphale’s heart broke.

Crowley sniffed, a look of pure shock on his face. “How long?” he muttered.

“Maybe a day?” Aziraphale answered quietly. He inched closer to the demon, reaching out and gripping his arm tightly. Crowley was quiet for several minutes. “Say something, Crowley.” Aziraphale pleaded.

“I… I don’t know what to say.” Crowley whimpered.

“Can we go back to the bookshop?” Aziraphale asked quietly. Crowley nodded numbly, but didn’t move, so Aziraphale grabbed him under the arms and pulled him up to a standing position. He snapped his fingers and did away with the picnic supplies that were strewn across the grass several meters away. He felt a rather large piece of his Grace disappear, and made a mental note not to use his powers again.

He quietly led Crowley toward the bookshop, absently noticing that there were now ducks and birds and people in the park. The angels must have cast a spell to keep everyone out of the park, a spell that was broken when Crowley killed Barham.

When the pair made it to the front door of the bookshop, Aziraphale quietly asked Crowley to unlock the door. He did it without any questions.

Aziraphale slowly led Crowley to the back room of the shop, absently checking that the sign was switched to “closed.” He felt a sharp pang of deep sorrow when he realized that A. Z. Fell & Co. would never open again.

He quickly sat Crowley on the sofa, calmly sitting down next to him.

“Crowley, dear, please say something.” Aziraphale repeated.

“I…I…” Crowley swallowed thickly. “Satan, Aziraphale. I can’t live without you, I can’t, I _won’t…”_ Crowley trailed off into a sob, making Aziraphale lean forward and wrap his arms around the shaking demon.

“You’ll be okay, my dear. You’ve always been so strong…”  
  


“Because of _you,_ angel! I’m strong because I have you. You’ve always been there for me, even if you didn’t know it. I’m serious when I say that I don’t think I can survive without you…” Crowley cried. “And now here I am, sobbing into your jacket, when I should be comforting _you…”_

“Enough, Crowley. You have every right to be upset. I may be dying, my dear, but you’re going to live. I know how much I mean to you; I know this can’t be easy for you to grasp…”

“You have no idea how much you mean to me, Aziraphale.” Crowley whispered.

“I’m sure I mean as much to you as you do to me, dearest. I cannot even imagine how I would be feeling if the roles were reversed…” Aziraphale answered.

“No, Aziraphale.” Crowley sat up from where his face had been pressed against the angel’s chest. His yellow eyes were bright with emotions and unshed tears. “Angel, I…” he sniffed. “I-I love you, Aziraphale. More than you know. And I am so, so sorry that it took your imminent death to get me to say it.”

“As I said, Crowley, I mean as much to you as you mean to me.” Aziraphale gave the demon a sad smile.

“You mean…?” Crowley trailed off.

“I do, my dear. I’m so sorry that these are the circumstances under which we are having this conversation.” Aziraphale cautiously ran a hand through Crowley’s messy hair. He let it drift down to the demon’s cheek, where it stayed. “I love you, Crowley. I have for a long time.” Aziraphale whispered. “Please, my love, can we have one last night of normalcy?”

Crowley nodded, unshed tears still lingering in his eyes. He carefully lowered himself down on the sofa, resting his head in Aziraphale’s lap. He conjured a short novel and handed it to the angel, who took it gratefully.

They fell into their normal routine easily; Crowley conjured two glasses of wine, and they sat and enjoyed each other’s company for the last time. Aziraphale read aloud from the book, running his free hand through Crowley’s flaming hair. They sipped their wine and fell into easy banter between chapters, though the grim nature of their evening was not lost on either of them.

Aziraphale could feel his Grace ebbing away. He was starting to lose strength in his corporation as the time passed. He could feel the strength in his hands slipping, and soon had to reach up with the hand that was in Crowley’s hair to catch the book before it made contact with the demon’s forehead.

By the time Aziraphale finished reading the book, he was very nearly finished.

“Crowley, I’m nearing the end, my love.” Aziraphale whispered. He was not strong enough to speak any louder.

Crowley sat up from where he was lying, quickly bracing his back against the opposite arm rest. He held out his arms for Aziraphale. “Come here, angel.”

Aziraphale let a very small smile grace his lips before slowly moving to lean against the demon. He rested his head against Crowley’s chest, comforted by the steady beat of the demon’s unnecessary heart. He felt Crowley’s arms encircle his shoulders, and used the last of his strength to wrap his arms loosely around the demon’s waist. Crowley lightly rested his cheek on the top of Aziraphale’s head. He felt tears prickling his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He needed to be strong for Aziraphale. Against his will, however, a tear dripped from his eye onto Aziraphale’s fluffy hair.

“I want you to promise me something Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered.

“Anything.” Crowley answered hurriedly.

“I want… no, I need you to promise me that you will do anything you can to live the rest of your life to the fullest. I cannot have you sulking for the rest of your life because I died. I need you to take care of yourself.”

“Aziraphale, I will do everything in my power to live my life well after you die.” Crowley’s voice cracked, and he squeezed Aziraphale just a little tighter.

“Good. I love you, Crowley. Never forget that.” Aziraphale muttered.

“I love you too, Aziraphale. Always have. I will never forget you.” Crowley leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the angel’s forehead.

Crowley held on as the last bit of life drained from Aziraphale’s corporation. When the angel’s vacated body slumped against Crowley, he finally allowed himself the sob that had been trying to escape since the whole thing started.

He stayed on the sofa, clinging to the remains of the love of his life, for a very long time.

……….

It had been four years since Aziraphale died, and Crowley was not coping well. He had tried his hardest to adjust to life without his angel, but nothing had worked.

He had briefly moved out of London, trying to get away from the memories, but that thought had been fleeting. He and Aziraphale had been practically everywhere on Earth together, and it hurt too much to be away from the bookshop.

So, he had moved back to London, moving his sparse belongings into the bookshop and taking up residence in the second floor flat that sat above the small area where Aziraphale had spent a large portion of his life on Earth. He even grew out his hair, letting it flow past his shoulders, because Aziraphale had always liked his long hair.

Crowley created a third floor of the bookshop, turning the room into a spacious greenhouse for his plants. He thought that gardening would help him, but he didn’t have the heart to berate his plants. He fed, watered, and generally took care of them, but he no longer felt a need to yell at them or have the most perfect plants in London. He let leaf spots grow to the point where the whole plant would die.

He tried to take up reading, but the tiny words on Aziraphale’s books made his snake eyes hurt, so he gave that up quickly. He tried painting, drawing, and even tattooing for a stint. He had found a way to lace a very small amount of holy water into the tattoo ink so it would actually stay in his skin. He had tattooed a full sleeve onto himself, the centerpiece being a very large snake that wrapped all the way up his left arm. There were cutout scenes all around the snake, portraying the different times that he and Aziraphale spent together. They ranged from the garden of Eden to a picnic in the park. The spaces between the cutouts were filled with an array of flowers and even a few books. He was really very proud of the work he did. He had also tattooed a small tartan bowtie onto his right wrist, which was difficult, considering he was right-handed.

But, like everything else he had done since Aziraphale died, tattooing didn’t last. He didn’t have the heart to continue doing something he enjoyed while the love of his life was dead and gone from the world. He looked at the bowtie on his wrist every time he woke up, and every time he went to sleep. It was the only thing that gave him any comfort.

Not that he slept much, anymore. He could barely sleep for a few hours before he awoke from nightmares of Aziraphale dying. His nightmares used to be of Falling, or of the burning bookshop, but now there was nothing that his subconscious could project other than Aziraphale’s last moments, spent wrapped in Crowley’s arms.

After a particularly nasty nightmare, Crowley decided that enough was enough. He had tried his best to live without Aziraphale; he couldn’t do it anymore.

Crowley moved to the safe that sat in the bedroom wall, moving the Mona Lisa sketch and inputting the code. When it opened, he carefully removed a tartan thermos.

Crowley used his senses to reach inside the closed thermos, feeling for even the slightest drop of leftover holy water from when he had emptied the contents on Ligur. He found a drop, and willed the drop to multiply until the container was full of one of the only things that could truly kill him.

Crowley slowly sat the thermos back in the open safe, not closing it. He moved to his wardrobe and removed his favorite outfit, choosing to dress himself instead of using his powers to change his clothes.

Once his skinny jeans, t-shirt, jacket, and snakeskin boots were all in place, and his sunglasses were carefully perched on the bridge of his nose, Crowley grabbed the thermos and closed the safe. He walked down the stairs slowly, manually locking the bookshop door behind him as he stepped into the warm August air. He rummaged in his pants pocket for the keys to the Bentley and, finding them, unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

He careened away from the curb, tearing through London until he was well outside the city limits. His driving habits were one of a very few number of things that hadn’t changed after Aziraphale’s death. That, his clothing, and his gardening. That was it.

After two hours of driving, the thermos carefully strapped into the passenger seat, Crowley glimpsed a quiet row of cliffs that overlooked the sea. He whipped the Bentley around in a hairpin turn and floored it, braking about three feet away from the edge of the cliff.

Crowley climbed out of the Bentley slowly, running his fingers along the side as he stepped around to retrieve the holy water. He gently set the Bentley’s keys on the driver’s seat and gave his beloved car one last look before walking toward the cliff.

There was an apple tree just on the edge, leaving hardly a foot of grass before the steep slope down to the beach. Crowley thought that was very fitting. He sat down against the tree, setting the thermos beside him and dangling his feet over the edge. He breathed in the salty sea air and enjoyed the cool breeze that was playing over his face, taking off his sunglasses, for the last time, and setting them down next to him.

Yes, this was a very fitting place to die.

Crowley grabbed the thermos and brought it in front of it, admiring the tartan pattern that encased it. He grasped the lid.

“Last chance to change your mind, Crowley.” He muttered. He wasn’t going to change his mind.

He gently twisted the lid off the thermos, staring down into the cool depths of holy water. The water was so calm, so clear, that it was almost funny to Crowley how deadly the stuff was to him. He guessed that being outdone by freaking water was just another ridiculous part of being a demon.

Crowley idly tried to think back to his time as an angel. He couldn’t remember much, and what he did remember was odd. He could remember creating stars, and nebulas, and whole galaxies. But he could not remember his angelic name.

Crowley shrugged, swirling the contents of the thermos. _Maybe,_ he thought, _maybe I will remember my angelic name when I die. Maybe I will even be able to spend the rest of eternity with Aziraphale, wherever angels and demons go when they die._

Crowley smiled at the thought, the first real smile that had crossed his face since Aziraphale died.

“Well, I guess it’s now or never.” Crowley muttered. But, just as he started to tip the thermos toward his mouth, intent on drinking the holy water inside, he heard a voice behind him.

“Please, Crowley, don’t do that.” The voice pleaded.

“And now I’m hallucinating! Fantastic!” Crowley muttered. “You’re dead.” He deadpanned, refusing to turn and look at whatever hallucination he had conjured up. The hallucination that sounded exactly like Aziraphale.

“I’m not.” Not-Aziraphale replied. Crowley felt a rustle at his side, and felt the air move as someone sat next to him. “I’m here, Crowley.” Not-Aziraphale whispered.

“You’re not.” Crowley argued. He still did not turn to look at whatever was sitting next to him.

“Please look at me, my dear. Please.” Not-Aziraphale pleaded.

Finally daring to look, Crowley turned his head.

Of course, his head had conjured up an exact replica of the love of his life, down to the worry lines etched around Not-Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Wow, good job brain. You did that perfectly.” Crowley muttered.

“Crowley, I’m real. Please, just give me the thermos, and I can tell you what happened.” Not-Aziraphale pleaded.

“Nah, I think I’m all good there.” Crowley mocked.

“P-please, my love. I don’t want you to die.” Not-Aziraphale practically whimpered.

“I didn’t want you to die either, Aziraphale. But here I am, with you dead and my life ruined.” Crowley conceded to the hallucination, secretly relishing his final thoughts of the angel.

Not-Aziraphale gently reached over toward Crowley’s hands. After a moment’s hesitation, the angel wrapped his hands around the thermos and gently pried it from Crowley’s hands; an easy accomplishment, considering that the demon was so astounded by the fact that his hallucination could touch physical objects that he couldn’t protest. Aziraphale picked the lid up off the ground and screwed it firmly onto the thermos. He set it down as far away from Crowley as he could reach.

“Crowley, dear, I’m not a hallucination.” Aziraphale whispered.

“Impossible. You… dead. In my arms. Gone. Four years…” Crowley stuttered.

“Has it really been that long?” Aziraphale asked, scooting closer to the demon.

“Tried… everything… couldn’t be happy without you… holy water… last resort…” Crowley stumbled over his words.

“I’m so sorry, my love.” Aziraphale cautiously reached over and grasped Crowley’s hand, trying not to startle the demon even more than he already was. “I… I didn’t die. At the last moment, the remnants of my Grace were pulled from my corporation and brought to Heaven; they rebuilt me and helped me grow strong, as an apology for Barham and those other two angels attacking me. I wasn’t able to communicate with Earth, and I was only now able to leave, Crowley. They returned me to my original corporation, which was well preserved where you buried it. When I couldn’t find you at the bookshop, I panicked, and traced your aura here. I flew so I could make it quickly, in case…” he paused, searching for words. “I’m so sorry that you have been left to grieve my death for four years, that was never my intention.”

Crowley reached up with his free hand and tentatively touched Aziraphale’s cheek. “You’re… you’re _real?”_ his voice cracked.

“I am, my love.” Aziraphale reached up and gently placed his free hand atop Crowley’s.

A strangled cry escaped Crowley as he flung himself into Aziraphale’s arms. He sobbed into Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel held him tightly, angling them away from the edge of the cliff.

“Missed you… so much…” Crowley sobbed. He clung to Aziraphale tightly, bunching his fists in the fabric of his jacket. Aziraphale hugged him back, wrapping one arm around Crowley’s back and letting the other card through the demon’s long red hair.

“I missed you too, Crowley. Every day. You are the reason that I fought so hard to survive.” Aziraphale answered, his voice tight with emotion.

“Love you…” Crowley muttered into Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I love you too, dearest. More than anything.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley tighter for just a moment, trying to convey how much he loved the wily serpent.

When Crowley finally pulled back from the hug, wiping at the tear tracks on his face, Aziraphale almost broke down crying.

“You’re really here?” Crowley whispered.

“I really am.” Aziraphale replied. He lightly grabbed ahold of Crowley’s hands, turning them over and kissing each palm.

When he lowered the hands, Crowley lunged forward again, frantically pressing his lips against Aziraphale’s. The angel didn’t hesitate to return the kiss, lacing his fingers through Crowley’s hair as his mouth moved against the demon’s.

Crowley pulled back after only a moment, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. “Sorry, angel, I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.” He muttered sheepishly.

“So have I, my dear.” Aziraphale replied. A blush crept up his neck and into his cheeks.

He turned his gaze away from Crowley’s yellow eyes, noticing something poking out from under the cuff of the demon’s jacket.

“What’s that?” he questioned.

“Oh.” Crowley responded looking down at the grass under his leg. “I, um, took up tattooing briefly, while you were away. I found a way to infuse holy water with the ink so it wouldn’t heal itself. Did a few pieces on myself before I gave it up.” He answered.

“Can I see?” Aziraphale asked quietly.

Crowley carefully shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and set it behind him, allowing Aziraphale to survey his tattoo sleeve. He even pushed the sleeve of his t-shirt up past his shoulder so the angel could see the whole thing.

“Wow, Crowley.” Aziraphale grasped the demon’s arm, turning it in different directions so he could see the whole piece. “This is amazing. Is this the only tattoo that you did?” he asked.

“Well, there’s one more…” Crowley tilted his right arm toward Aziraphale, letting the angel see the tartan bowtie that adorned his inner wrist.

A tear spilled from Aziraphale’s eye as he surveyed Crowley’s handiwork.

“I know it’s soppy, but… I couldn’t live without this small reminder of you. It was the first thing I looked at every time I work up, and the last thing I looked at every time I went to sleep. You’re everything to me Aziraphale.” Crowley muttered.

“It’s beautiful, my love.” Aziraphale said. He let another tear drip from his eye. “Is there any way you could do a tattoo on me?” he asked quietly.

“Now?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“Why not?” Aziraphale answered.

Crowley snapped his fingers and conjured a tattoo gun and some sterile equipment. “What colors?” he asked.

“Black and red will do, I think.” Aziraphale answered. Crowley conjured those and, making hellfire erupt on the tip of his finger, slowly infused the ink with one of the only things that could harm Aziraphale. 

“Okay, what am I doing here?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale smirked.

An hour later, Crowley and Aziraphale were driving toward London in the Bentley, hand in hand. There was a small piece of gauze delicately wrapped around Aziraphale’s right wrist, covering a small snake tattoo that matched the one under Crowley’s ear.

“I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale whispered, stroking his thumb across Crowley’s knuckles.

“I love you, Aziraphale. Always.” Keeping his eyes on the road, Crowley carefully lifted their entwined hands to his lips and kissed the back of Aziraphale’s hand softly.

And, for once, in what seemed like forever, Crowley thought that everything was going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about going off on a tangent about tattoos, I really love them, and I just couldn’t help myself. I actually plan to get a Crowley snake tattoo when quarantine ends and I can go to a tattoo shop (this will be number seven!) Also, the title for this story comes from the song Disease by Beartooth. If you like rock music, and you have or do struggle with anxiety or depression or really anything like it, I highly suggest you give the song a listen. It’s really amazing and means a lot to me. Anyway, I really hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave a review if you liked it!


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